The Anti-Foodie by Maurice Lindsay
Unlike you, I eat to live, not live to eat, the little executive sauced out of the room, well-satisfied that he'd been able to give his cap of argument a kind of plume.
I thought of how he strove to advance his rank, the effort wizening his worried brow; and how, with his superiors, he drank only pure water, since he couldn't allow
indulgence flavour Calvin's witnessed creed - unlike the French, whose cooking was, he'd claim, the elevation of our animal need into a sensual time-consuming game!
I thought of the things that mattered most in life - good health and music; books and plays; great art, but, above all, a warmly-loving wife, and children of whom both of you are part,
sitting around the table at their food, their appetites maturing from shrill cries of: Must I eat this? It isn't any good! to: Mum, that's wizzo. What a great surprise!
And, as the world upon their shoulders turns - their palates, sharpened with the critic's tool, comparison - as haggis was to Burns, delight in what they like becomes the rule.
O little men for whom the yielding feel of human pleasure's weakness to deplore - oysters, oatcakes and salmon for a meal, I'll down you in a pledge of smooth Bowmore!
